


Confessionals

by Chokopoppo



Series: Lost In Translation [3]
Category: Turn (TV 2014)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-13
Updated: 2017-05-13
Packaged: 2018-10-31 04:22:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10891602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chokopoppo/pseuds/Chokopoppo
Summary: Romantic longings ought not be left to the unsaid wiles of men. Sooner or later, one of them is going to have to speak his mind.





	Confessionals

**Author's Note:**

> Well, this one's been sitting half-finished on my computer for like...a year. I figured a short piece was better than nothing at all, right? Right.
> 
> I can almost guarantee there won't be another story in this series until season 4 hits AMC, though. I'm motivated only through fan-comments and episode-to-episode hype. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

Robert Townsend could be useful.

This is what John tells himself - for a while, it’s even what he believes. Townsend is intelligent, in a quiet, reserved sort of way - the sort of man who sees all and says nothing. Not to put too fine a point on it, but he’s pretty sure he’s a molly, too. Can’t be certain, of course, but he’s got that practical, skittish discomfort around women, a certain look of restrained disgust at anything so innocuous as flirting. There’s got to be something there. Voice is too low to be a eunuch. And John’s a handsome man - he _knows_ he’s a handsome man. People do what he asks, and they find him attractive while they do it. Townsend should have been easy to manipulate.

The problem is, he’s not. Robert Townsend is viciously intelligent, John knows that, knew that, it’s what attracted him to Townsend in the first place. But what John _didn’t_ realize is that the other side of that particular coin is obstinacy, and Townsend is stubborn as a fucking mule. He pointedly ignores any and every hint John throws his way, goes above and beyond the call of duty to make John feel like an unmitigated ass, leaves him metaphorically flailing at the helm.

From across the room at Rivington’s, he watches Townsend stiffly refill madeira for a table full of officers, inclining his head politely one way, then another. What a strange creature, John thinks. Townsend has a very odd, unique face, and John briefly considers drawing him alone, like a portrait for a friend, but Townsend glances up from the table, catches his eye, lets something that might be a smile twitch across his face, and John feels his bowels turn to water. (It’s an effect he’s not sure Townsend knows he has.) He glances away quickly, and when he looks back, the officers are alone at the table. A starched, humbly grey suit slips past into the back room, and John is left with the image of those passive, pale eyes boring into his mind.

The eyes alone stay with him, and he sketches them onto a page to let them free. That’s how it starts.

~~

Honestly, the concussion is where it should have ended. But by the night of that particular mistake, John was - frankly - already long gone.

It’s important to recognize defeat, especially when it’s staring you in the face. In John’s case, it’s probably time to admit he no longer has control of the situation when Townsend shoots down his incredibly forward advances twice in the same night. Frustrated by failure, John has a very irritable and sleepless night, paced with unpleasant bouts of anger and arousal. It’s hard to accept failure. Harder when a desire to succeed has become unpleasantly personal.

On top of humiliation, the universe decides to add insult to injury - or in this case, injury to insult - and when he goes to his jacket pocket to find his sketchbook, he finds it missing. It must have fallen out when he was walking, or been stolen when he was mugged, or - and the thought sets his stomach alight in an altogether unfortunate way - taken out and left in the coffeehouse to be discovered by Rivington. Or, worse, by Townsend. His stomach rebels at the thought.

If it was dropped in the street, it may as well be gone forever - New Yorkers aren’t exactly known for their appreciation of fine art, or personal property. If it’s in Rivington’s - if Townsend looks through it - if he saw - 

His mind goes in circles above his head as he lies in bed. Again, as always, he wishes bitterly for Peggy’s presence. She had been a mark once, too. A note in his ledger with “might be useful” tacked on. But he had loved her - and then he had failed her, left her behind in Philadelphia like any of the countless, cheap, “useful” women before her. _“Philomena Chia - Actor. Could be useful.” “Margaret Shippen - Lady of means. Could be useful.”_

_“Robert Townsend - Barkeep. Could be useful.”_

~~

Abigail has been keeping an eye on John since the first night Townsend had to walk him home. She’s witness to the repeat performance now, her wary eye keeping John from doing anything he might regret later. He knows he’ll be thankful for it in the morning, but right now it’s making him feel tense and frustrated. For a man who’s made a career out of patience, he’s finding himself infuriated by the inability to speak _now_. He has never noticed before now the way the snow beads in Townsend’s hair and on his cheeks, soft and wet.

More than anything, he wants to help Townsend out of his coat (and everything else) and bring him into the circle of his arms, dry the weather from his face with a hand and kiss him again, illuminated by more than the weak lamps of a bar. Instead, he thanks Abigail as she takes his cloak from his shoulders, and eyes Townsend as passively as he can manage. “I must thank you again for walking me home a second time, Mr. Townsend,” he says, “but I worry that this city is a dangerous environment at night. Perhaps I could persuade you to - “

“I’m afraid I cannot stay. Thank you all the same.”

“Then, I could ask a servant of mine to escort you back to your home,” John offers, undeterred, “or back to the shop, if you need.”

“Thank you for your kindness, Major, but I assure you, I will be fine walking home,” Townsend says, gives a twitch of a smile, “I have lived in York City for much of my adult life. I am quite accustomed to the potential dangers of my home, and how to avoid them.”

John pauses, smiles fondly despite himself. “Townsend, what do I have to do to keep you in my house for ten minutes?”

“Invite me at a more polite hour of the day. Properly.” He settles his hat back onto his head. “Goodnight, Major.”

And then he is gone. John is alone in the hallway again, listening to Abigail humming softly. He thinks he recognizes the tune.

“Abigail,” he says, eyes focused on the specter of a retreating figure now long out of sight, “do I have any plans for the weekend?”

“Sir, you’ve been invited to a society dinner with the General, as a thank you for services rendered on Saturday,” she responds with the prompt memorized assurance of any desirable servant. “And on Sunday, with the majors recently stationed in York City.”

John clicks his tongue in irritation. “I am swamped with the dregs of society and bureaucracy,” he mumbles, more to himself than to present company, and again Townsend’s soft philosophy rings in his ears - _'Propriety has no place in the house of friendship, and likewise society ought to be left by the door,’_ he had said. Just moments before kissing him. “Well, I shall look into my schedule and set aside a time.”

“I could ask Orpheus to do so, sir,” Abigail offers, “what is the gentleman’s name?”

He considers this. Something about writing down an official rendezvous time with Townsend in a planner seems unwise - but then, the best kept secrets were the ones in plain sight. Besides, if Townsend wants an invitation, he’s going to get one. John is hardly in the mood to say no to him. “Robert Townsend,” he says after a moment, “in the afternoon. Coffee, not madeira.”

“Of course. And the gentleman is of what rank, sir?”

“No rank. An unaffiliated friend.”

There’s a pause - but to Abigail’s credit, it’s not a long one. “Of course, sir,” she says finally, “I’ll pass it along.”

John nods, and thanks her, and goes to bed. He sleeps better than he has in weeks, and for once does not find himself aching for Peggy’s body beside his.

~~

Townsend looks entirely out of place in John’s home. He’s not exactly a small man, but something about the size of the house and surrounding estate seems to dwarf him - grandeur looming over an unassuming man.

For his part, John’s just happy Townsend agreed to come. In all honesty, the past few days have been a matter of planting hope and sowing anxiety in return. Suppose Townsend has only - that is, that the event in Rivington’s, after closing, was a fluke, inspired by alcohol or - which is to say, if Townsend viewed the event as a mistake, or if it was inspired by pity, or anything else which might - but Townsend is here. Standing in the center of John’s office, arms clutched awkwardly around the thick wool coat he stolidly refuses to give to any of the servants in the house who have offered to take it, peering almost owlishly at anything except his host. “It’s all very…grand,” he says awkwardly.

John smiles, and takes him by the arm, and guides him away from prying eyes under the clever guise of a guided tour around the estate. Already, he is hyperaware of the raised eyebrows and curious glances from so many of the servants and workers in his house, the suspicions raised simply by his friendship with an American citizen. How quickly the alarm might be raised, he thinks with a shudder, if the truer nature of his affections for Townsend were found out. No, the only way is one of absolute secrecy. A shroud of -

“Major, you’ve gone very quiet,” Townsend says, in that easy, complacent way he has, “had I a penny, I’d pay it for your thoughts.”

“And since when are you so penniless? Here I was under the staunch impression that you had at least half a coffee shop to your name, unless something horrible has befallen you recently.”

“Wealth is relative - comparing myself to the multitude of the British army, now, I find myself enchanted by your home, feeling both underdressed and lighter of pocket.”

Most likely, he is joking - it’s always hard to tell, with Townsend - but John finds himself nervous, and glances towards his friend. “I fear you will try to make a habit of comparing yourself to me,” he says, “where I have been gifted by circumstance a vast and undeserved wealth, I assure you that the comfort I have been assured has nevertheless made me half the man you are.”

Townsend looks at him sideways - then, surprisingly, smiles. “Your humility, as always, chooses odd times to shine, Major.” His fingers, still cool from the frost outside, brush against the back of John’s hand. “But I ask you again, under no false pretenses, if your thoughts are too dark and deep to share, or if I might be privy to them.”

“I suppose you must, either now or otherwise later, as they pertain to you,” John says, and slowly comes to a halt, turning to face Townsend head-on, “I fear the repercussion of my words, should you not consent to their baser meaning, but I - I must speak my mind. Since giving leave of Philadelphia, I have been besotted of a certain cloying isolation following my separation from…certain persons, of which I lay my fondness upon. This abasement has only ever lifted from my shoulders in your company, and after the events of our prior engagement, I thought perhaps - “

“Hush,” says Townsend, and kisses his cheek. He does it with such ease that John is almost certain he must be dreaming. “I understand your meaning, for you gave yourself away quite plainly before you had spoken twenty words,” he says, smiling, “it is a certain ruddiness around your ears which reveals you so.”

“Forgive me. I have never - with men - “

“ _Hush,_ sir,” Townsend says again, and smiles, “I do not expect proficiency from you. I will show you in time. For now I must pray that you will be silent, except in guiding me through your vast and seemingly endless estate.”

John feels the flush in his face, and he smiles - eyes flitting downward, then towards his walking companion, and finally back across the estate. He takes it upon himself to point out places of import and interest, or otherwise avoid speaking. It gives him time to think of the way Townsend’s lips feel on his skin.

His heart swells.


End file.
